


VI : Hours to Midnight

by TheAudity



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Background Wickadioff, Jealousy, M/M, These two fuckers can't communicate, cottage parties, idiots to lovers, replace "authors" with "Quentin" and you've got this fic, you know that Neil Gaiman quote about how author's can't tell when they're being seduced?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28040238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity
Summary: As far as excuses went, it was far from convincing. Quentin would know, he was the reigning king of deluding oneself. So maybe this was more the Penny Julia saw, still the worst but...“You—you’re seriously an asshole. But you’re...not really that bad, are you?”“Honestly I’m just tired of watching you putz around like a limp nutsack. Just fucking talk to him, man."He wouldn't. He probably wouldn't.Quentin sunk a little, knowing he really should. “Okay...um...thanks.”"Yeah, sure." Penny shrugged, like acknowledging that they'd almost had a real conversation was beneath him. Which, it probably was. But for a moment, Quentin could at least pretend. That Julia really hadn't sent Penny, that there was a chance in hell Eliot could actually want him back, that he'd have the nerve to ask. Hell, Penny was right. If he was just going to tear himself apart either way, what did he have to lose?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker
Comments: 29
Kudos: 128
Collections: Seven Times Quentin gave Eliot that Good Dick





	VI : Hours to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> WELL WELL WELL. This friends, is legitimately my first attempt writing smut. Like, ever. It was an experience, please be gentle with me.
> 
> ONE MILLION THANKS to the most INCREDIBLE Hoko_Onchi and Rubick, for their beta reading, for sharing their exceptional smutmancy advice, and for listening to me ramble through at least two dozen full blown freakouts over finishing this fic, and also all the thanks to AmbiguiousPenny for the emotional support and cheer reading. We all know this fic never would have gotten done without you, please don't pretend otherwise.

* * *

**9:17 PM**

It was Friday night at the Cottage, and Quentin Coldwater was _not_ brooding, thank you Julia.

So what if he didn't want to head out into the writhing mass of bodies, dancing and drinking and doing whatever the fuck people did at parties? That shouldn’t have been a surprise to her, for fucks sake he’d hidden in the bathroom and browsed the Fillory Fanboards for hours at their joint graduation party. It had been loud, and filled with people he didn’t know, and Julia’s mom may be many things but chef is _not_ one of them, so all the food had been just on the wrong side of burnt. He'd never liked parties, he’d never made it a secret, and Julia certainly didn't need to make it into a _thing_ . Hell, he was only at this one because Margo had made attendance _compulsory_ for the house. Seriously, the stairs had been warded to keep anyone from going to their rooms before midnight, it was barbaric. Draconian. A slap in the face to anyone who had been cramming in the library for the past six hours and just wanted to slip into the sweet, sweet embrace of their mattress. As sincere as Julia’s efforts to make Quentin _“come out of his shell”_ and _“embrace the fun you so adamantly rejected at Columbia”_ were _,_ they were entirely unwelcome. Fortunately, after twenty minutes of prodding and pointed looks, she had dropped the subject, content to leave him in the nook by the window with a worn paperback and his third dry martini. Or at least, she was content to not make his problems her problems. Which was fine, because aside from needing to sleep, he didn't have any problems, and he _definitely wasn't brooding_.

Quentin peered over the dog-eared pages of _A Wizard of Earthsea_ he’d tucked into his messenger bag that morning and turned his attention to the crowd before him. As fantastic as Le Guin’s words were, between the roar of 80s new wave and 90s dance anthems and the yawns he was failing to stave off with increasing frequency, he wasn’t able to focus on them anyways. The crowd was, honestly, an impressive turnout even for a Physical Kids party. As per usual, Hoberman had made his way down from the treehouse and was sampling his newest blends, while a group of increasingly stoned Knowledge students tried to outdo one another by blowing ever more complicated smoke formations. A game of spin the bottle was gathering by the foosball table with Todd of all people as the apparent ring leader, and he spotted Julia dancing by the fireplace with Kady, decked out like she was the frontman of an 80s punk band and leather was going out of style, her hands clutching Julia's hips from behind. Huh. Good for her.

Further yet, people mingled and danced. Margo sauntered across the room in heels that made Quentin wince, and Alice, the one person who was just as awkward and out of place at these things had vanished. He suspected she had found a way around the wards keeping everyone trapped in the seething mass of humanity that had once been a perfectly comfortable communal space. He downed the rest of his drink and tried to remember not to resent her, or at least to only resent her a little, for not sharing. And there, standing across the room, people parting for him like the red sea, was the subject of an embarrassing majority of his thoughts. The source of all his current problems and the only individual he would consider brooding over if brooding was a thing he did, which it _wasn’t_ Julia. Eliot fucking Waugh.

Tonight Eliot was in yellow, a soft buttery vest paired with a gold and red-flecked tie, and he had _not_ been wearing that eyeliner when Quentin last saw him, when he had handed him a mug of coffee as he stumbled out the front door that morning. He should have looked ridiculous, like a pretentious Oscar-Wilde-wannabe-tryhard, but on Eliot it fucking worked. He was, without a doubt, the sun within the Cottage. Everything and everyone seemed to orbit around him, desperate for the light of his attention. He brought life to even the smallest gatherings through the power of a perfectly enchanted drink, a particularly barbed comment that you couldn’t help but laugh with, and that spectacular feeling that maybe, for just a second, you were lucky enough to be a part of something entirely separate from the rest of the world if he deigned to place his focus on you. How Quentin had become one of those people was just as much a mystery to him as it was to everyone else. 

If Eliot was the sun, he was a black hole. Hidden in the corners of space, bogged down by more useless knowledge of card tricks and classic literature than even the drunkest of partygoers could handle, ready to drink in any and all light that came his way. He would eventually drag the photons that made up Eliot towards the event horizon, and Eliot would probably break away before being pulled into the singularity. He would be just as cold, just as alone as before, but Quentin could survive that. It was fine.

Alright. Maybe he was brooding a little. 

It was hard to pinpoint when exactly his feelings for Eliot became a—he wouldn't say crush, the word was too loaded with juvenile sentiment and thoughts of surnames doodled in the margins of notebooks. But something. Maybe it was something that grew a little each time Eliot dragged him from the confines of his room to go off on some campus adventure, be it stealing Gerald back from the Treehouse or finding the best spot in the sea for picnicking. Maybe it had hit him that first morning after he was moved to the Cottage, hungover and miserable, when Eliot had convinced him (under much protest) to join him downstairs for an indulgent Saturday morning french toast breakfast, complete with Margo's company, plenty of coffee, and some light chastisement to not drink so much next time because _"sorry, hangover cure potions are off limits till you survive here a month, third year's rules. But I might have a private stash we can raid later."_ Or hell, maybe it had emerged fully formed like Athena the moment Quentin walked up to Brakebills and Eliot had declared _"Quentin Coldwater?"_ like the name alone filled him with pity while Quentin had struggled to remember how words even worked. Suffice to say, it didn't matter. Feelings were here, they sucked, they weren't going anywhere anytime soon.

If anyone would have cared to ask him later, Quentin would have sworn that he'd only leaned against the frame of the reading nook in the window that no one but him seemed to care to use for its intended purpose for a second. Maybe two. Ten, whatever. All that mattered was that one moment, he was watching the subject of his entirely absurd crush saunter through a group of third years who shockingly didn’t argue when he ended their game of beer pong early ( _“too blase”_ Quentin had heard him say, since he was apparently far gone enough that he could pinpoint Eliot’s voice from across a room and over a million other conversations. _“Why don’t you try a real game, let me show you-”_ ), and the next moment the very same Eliot was settling onto the cushions beside him. He didn’t even need to open his eyes, since he was apparently so infatuated he could pinpoint Eliot’s cologne at a moment’s notice. Oak and citrus, with a hint of musk and something underneath that was uniquely his. 

Regardless, he startled awake with an undignified “hey!” before he could berate himself for looking like—well, like himself. Then Eliot chuckled beside him, and he remembered that El already knew he was kind of a loser and hadn’t dropped him yet. So, small victories.

"Well, it seems like someone needs his beauty sleep.”

Quentin scoffed, but there was no bite to it. He'd never managed to actually stay upset with Eliot, even after he'd thrown him into a hazing hellscape and let him get chucked to Antarctica without warning. “Fuck off, you’d get it if you ever spent any time in the library," he teased. "But- yeah, I guess... Why is this party mandatory anyway? Is there something like, important I missed?”

“Hm?" Eliot gave him a once over, like it was the most ridiculous question he's heard all night, with the exception of twenty minutes ago when Todd asked if he could tend the bar. _Fuck_ , he wanted to drink in every second of it. "Does Bambi even need a reason to make a party compulsory? No, there's nothing in particular to celebrate, except maybe raiding Lipson's liquor cabinet. Not that I can confirm that actually happened. She just felt like it.”

He waved a hand as he spoke, and it managed to be haughty, just a little arrogant. It consumed all of Quentin's willpower to not stare at the subtle flex of his fingers. He swallowed, “Right, I just feel like the wards are overkill, you know?”

“Ah, the “Quentin-Shall-Not-Be-A-Buzzkill” variant of Baranov’s Refraction Screen, it’s some of her best work. She spent all afternoon perfecting it.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“You’ll never know.”

With a sigh Quentin settled back against the window. And this—this was nice. Loathe as he was to admit it, sometimes Julia had a point. Sometimes he needed to be coaxed out of his shell, pushed into trying something new. It was just a shame that the one person who, miraculously, was best equipped for the task was someone so remarkably out of his league. He gave Eliot an unimpressed side eye, and Eliot just grinned.

He wished, not for the first time, that he was more than someone who had managed to worm their way into Eliot’s seemingly impenetrable social circle, more than just some kid with a stupid crush, _fine it was a crush._ He wanted to be the kind of person who wasn’t afraid to shift his weight ever so slightly, and press into Eliot’s side. Who was brave enough to say ‘ _hey_ ’ and lean over and kiss him, just once, even if only to say ‘ _Well. Here’s how I feel. Take my heart, it’s yours_ ’ knowing full well it would undoubtedly wind up broken and- alright, fine, he was _definitely_ brooding. Whatever.

It was a small miracle that Eliot cleared his throat before Quentin’s thoughts could sink any further. “Anyways," he started, "I actually came here with a mission. Here, drink this.”

Before Quentin could ask _‘what?’_ , Eliot procured a drink seemingly out of nowhere. It was like magic, or more likely he hadn’t been paying attention. He stifled a yawn. It was definitely the third one.

“Eliot, I’m pretty sure if I drink anymore I _will_ pass out on this bench.”

“Oh undoubtedly—” He laughed, and Quentin wanted nothing more than to crawl into his chest and live in that sound. “—and if that comes to pass Bambi will definitely come over here and shove her stiletto up your ass, which is why this one is enchanted. Should perk you right up.”

It took every ounce of strength Quentin had left not to say _‘that’s fair, I can think of a few other things I’d rather have up my ass anyways’_. Those martinis had clearly been a horrible idea, and he would have to remember to tell Julia that she was a bad friend for suggesting them. Or for bringing them over when Quentin suggested them. Or for not stopping Quentin when he went to get them himself. Whichever one was really the case didn’t matter all that much. Regardless, he took a moment to attempt to compose himself, swallowed, and managed “Oh, thanks.”

Overall, it was extremely smooth.

That was the part that baffled Quentin the most. Not that he was, as expected, a ball of neurosis and anxieties in the approximate shape of a human who could barely maintain eye contact with people half the time, but that Eliot actually seemed to, in some capacity, find him _amusing._ And not in the way Kelsey Williams had when she'd asked him to homecoming, only to laugh from her porch while her brothers pantsed him in the driveway and egged his car and _Jesus Julia was it really a surprise he'd skipped prom entirely?_ By some bizarre twist of fate, Eliot, with his perfectly styled hair and ridiculous habit of overdressing for everything and somehow making it look natural and general air of lofty condescension, seemed to actually _like_ Quentin, old hoodies and all. There still had to be some joke to it, but he wasn't the punchline right now, and that was good enough.

He accepted the drink, all too aware of the slight brush of fingertips that came with such a pedestrian act. It was colorful and fruity, and Quentin suspected Eliot had charmed his glassware not to condense on the outside. It seemed like the sort of frivolous thing he would spend an afternoon on, talking about the _‘importance of even the smallest details’_ all the while ignoring whatever essay had been assigned for his Intermediate Theory of Replicating Metaphysical Frequencies lecture. He unfortunately, also started coughing as soon as he took a sip from it, lurching forward in a manner that certainly solidified his reputation in Eliot’s mind as being the furthest possible thing from ‘cool’ or ‘suave’. 

The burn hit him fast and hard, like his throat had become a pathway to hell for the foreseeable future, even though he knew it would only last a few more seconds. He took a deep breath, held it, and hoped he hadn’t expelled too much of his tattered reputation along with the pain. “That’s—wow, that’s really strong.” He eventually exhaled.

“Of course, I do have a reputation to consider.” While Quentin tried to remind his lungs how to work, Eliot placed a hand on his lower back, gently stroking along his spine and he promptly forgot how to breathe all over.

Reputation. Right. He was, unfortunately, all too familiar with Eliot’s _reputation_. In the eight months since he walked into a graffiti lined alley and outwards to the sunlit sea of grass that preceded Brakebills and under Eliot’s wing, he’d been warned. Brakebills was a small campus, and everyone talked. Everyone knew that Eliot all but made it a personal mission to work his way through every new boy that came through the exam room doors. A revolving door of find-fuck-flee, that seemed to apply to every body but his own. Still, he had Eliot’s friendship, that had to count for something.

When Eliot sat up, brushed Quentin’s hair behind his ear and he had to fight the urge to follow his hand, he almost believed it.

“Anyways,” Eliot pulled him from his reverie once more, probably for the best. “I wasn’t entrusted with the counter-sequence for those wards, something about being ‘too soft’ or some nonsense. But if you get too overwhelmed at any point, just find me. I’m sure I can mix something up for you that’ll make it all better.” Something passed through his eyes that Quentin couldn’t decipher, before a crash across the room drew Eliot’s attention upward. “And on that note, I have to go. Todd’s touching my bar.”

Before Quentin could protest, or at least point out that what Eliot considered a ‘bar’ was just a collection of drink carts he’d pushed together and insisted was a sacred space, Eliot was walking away. It took him a moment to remember _‘what wards?’_ before remembering that, right, he was trapped here. It was easy to forget that feeling around Eliot. But now he was alone, with his thoughts and a sense of awakeness that would indeed keep Margo from chasing him down, but would leave him painfully aware of every passing minute from here on out. At least if nothing else, he could admire Eliot as he walked away. Did that make him kind of an objectifying dick? Sure, probably, but knowing Eliot he would take it as the compliment it was. He knew his ass looked great in those slacks, he wouldn’t have worn them otherwise. And this...this was fine. Everything was fine.

He checked his phone. 9:32. God, tonight was going to be fucking slow.

“Damn, I think I’d take another round of Shake It Off over this pining bullshit.”

Correction. Tonight was going to be downright excruciating.

“Hi Penny, could you fuck off please?” Quentin said through gritted teeth, refusing to turn towards his former roommate, current pain in his ass.

“Nah, I like this spot.” Penny replied coolly, gesturing towards the crowd with his beer (and who the hell drank Bud Light at a cottage party? Apparently stupidly hot raging assholes, that’s who), towards where Kady and Julia were still dancing- only now Julia had turned around, and they were dancing more with their tongues than with their hips. Quentin blinked. Sure, he was oblivious, but this _had_ to be a new development. He glanced at Penny, and immediately bristled at his grin because _hey that was his best friend he was staring at, jackass._

“Seriously?”

“What, you’re allowed to oggle Eliot’s ass but I’m not allowed to watch my girlfriends dance?”

“Wait, _what?_ ” He blinked again. There was _no way_ he’d actually missed this. Penny had to be fucking with him, right? What would Julia even see in him? He’d have to ask her about it later. Much later. When he was much drunker and didn’t have to look at Penny’s stupid smug face and chiseled jawline and abundance of open shirts that showed off the entire expanse of his muscled chest and—okay fine he kind of got it. Sort of. Whatever he was still a jackass.

If Penny could hear his aggressive negative assessment, which he undoubtedly could, he didn’t show it. He just rolled his eyes and continued. “Yeah, you see unlike you, Julia’s capable of pulling her head out of her ass and telling people what she wants, instead of just following them around begging for scraps of attention.”

Quentin’s grip on his glass tightened. He’d heard those rumours too, and sure as hell didn’t need to hear them again from fucking _Penny_ of all people. “Why don’t you mind your own business and just, stay out of my head.”

“Believe me, I’m trying. Your wards just suck that much.”

Penny took another drink of his shitty beer, and with a sigh, Quentin followed suit. Eliot had outdone himself again, it was fucking delicious. Pomegranate and wine and he wouldn’t bother trying to guess what else, it was all lost on him, and the incredibly bizarre sensation of being lulled further into intoxication while also being made more alert. Leave it to Eliot to bring a perfect contradiction to life and serve it without a second thought. Leave it to him to keep clinging to them.

Across the room, Eliot had reclaimed his throne behind his makeshift bar, glasses and bottles spinning about him lazily. Some preppy Illusion kid he sort of recognized from P.A., Derek or Dylan or something, was leaning into his space, and Eliot was laughing at whatever terrible joke or pickup line he’d just spouted off, and Eliot was handing him a drink with a flourish, and glancing at his lips, and resting a hand on his shoulder, and the taste in Quentin's mouth soured. He wanted to be sick.

“It’s not like it matters if I’m—fucking _pining_ or whatever,” Quentin spat, only half thinking. Maybe one quarter. Not at all. He sighed. “I wouldn’t stand a chance either way.”

“Yeah, it really doesn’t,” Penny scoffed, and Quentin kind of wanted to punch him. “I mean, the lovestruck mooning is pretty pathetic, but that’s right up your alley, isn’t it? Just stick with this act Coldwater, you’re way too much of a pussy to do anything else about it.”

For a moment, Quentin imagined proving Penny wrong. He imagined crossing the expanse of the living room, pulling Eliot down by his ridiculous tie and kissing him, fiercely, with Penny and the beer pong quartet and fucking _Dylan_ as his witnesses. He imagined he could look Eliot in the eye and say something like _‘hey, wanna get out of here?’_ without sounding like a complete loser, and Eliot would smirk and say something smooth and wholly inappropriate, and they wouldn’t be able to head upstairs still but that didn’t matter because they’d have the back patio all to themselves and—then Penny had to laugh, and it all crashed around him.

It was one thing to live with every painfully familiar ounce of his own self loathing. It was entirely different to have those intrusive thoughts thrown in your face by someone else. When tonight was over, and he was either much more sober or _significantly_ more drunk, he would have to have a serious conversation with Julia to make sure she knew her taste in men sucked. 

Quentin muttered some excuse about needing to get some air and rushed from the scene. It was cowardly and it was unfair because _that was his spot first_ , but whatever. Penny had ruined the vibe there anyways. He might have heard Penny muttering under his breath that he wasn’t _‘nearly drunk enough for this bullshit’_ , but he also might not have cared. He just wanted to find somewhere, anywhere else to hide out until midnight. Fine, call him Angel, he was 100% in vampire brooding mode. Congratulations, Julia. You win.

The room had felt full from the spot by the window, but walking through it, even from the fringes along the walls, was moderately claustrophobic at best. Perhaps he could just keep lingering along the edges of the crowd, maybe make his way to one of the quieter spots in the Cottage. There weren’t many, but Quentin remembered another reading nook, hidden behind the bookshelf. Getting to it just required passing through the house, across the makeshift dance floor, past the ring of spin the bottle that was getting way hotter than any game started by Todd had any right to be, and through the archway where Eliot had set up shop, where fucking Derek or whatever was still leaning into his space, and where Eliot was grinning back, and where for a split second Quentin convinced himself that Eliot had glanced in his direction that his devilish grin was for him alone. Quentin downed the last of his drink in one pull. It wasn’t half as much a distraction as he’d hoped. 

It was a mystery how, but somehow he made it across the house without being accosted. Julia and Kady were, well, occupied otherwise, and he might have spotted Julia pulling Kady into a coat closet, but he would never admit it. Margo must have been making her rounds opposite him, and everyone else who would have had any desire to speak to him- maybe a grand total of three people from various classes who he knew well enough to share notes with, but not well enough to get their names, were too drunk or too high or too gleeful to consider it. He’d made it past the archway, past the collection of carts and bottles and garnishes and Dylan’s fucking _‘fuck me’_ eyes. 

God _damn it_ why couldn’t Alice have shared whatever counterspell she’d worked out?

There was maybe twenty feet between him and sanctuary, between finding—well, not quiet, but at least a more muffled space, between finding the bliss that came with ignorance of not having to see Eliot’s flavor of the month. Week. Night. He just needed to find where the opening was, he’d been pretty drunk when he first discovered it. Come to think of it, the circumstances had been virtually identical to tonight. An unannounced party, some new piece on Eliot’s arm, even less memorable than the current model as he’d flunked out a week later, and an overabundance of alcohol and Hoberman’s weed. So maybe only the former applied tonight, but the night was still young. Or possibly over, if he decided to bunker down behind the bookshelf until it was all over-

“Quentin!”

He stopped mid step. He turned around, and found himself again facing the full force of Eliot, imposing and tall and striding towards him. Behind him, at least Dylan/Derek/Who really cared looked sufficiently annoyed at being ignored for the time being. Again, small victories. 

After a moment longer than he cared to admit, Quentin stopped gaping. “Hey, Eliot, don’t you have-”

“It’s fine, the bar can wait a few moments.”

“You know it’s not actually a bar, right?” He deadpanned, relaxing a little.

“Hush Q, daddy’s talking. So, forget what I said earlier about _‘come by if you need something’_ , that’s so boring. Why don’t you come with me now? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Quentin suddenly felt hot. He could only hope it didn’t show on his face. Conversations with Eliot tended to involve a fair bit of emotional whiplash. Maybe that was a facet of Eliot’s personality, maybe that was an effect of Quentin’s desperation, maybe he didn’t feel like thinking about it too much. All that mattered was he’d gone from tense, to something vaguely resembling normal, to tense in an entirely _new_ way in a matter of seconds, and Eliot was looking at him in a way that conveyed amusement, a fair bit of teasing, and something that Quentin would have read as rapturous if directed at anyone else, and his voice was absolutely salacious, or the alcohol was finally hitting him and Quentin’s needy brain was convincing him to see signs that were never there.

And he wanted to follow those signs, to go with him. _God_ did he want to. It was embarrassing how willing he was to follow Eliot, to... just follow him around, begging for scraps of attention. Right.

“I’m...thanks, but I think I’m just gonna-” He gestured towards the bookshelf, hoping to get his message across but not really expecting anything. “Besides, I don’t want to keep you from—you guys look like you’re having fun. So I’m—yeah I’m just gonna—you know—”

“Hey, Q. It’s fine, no worries.” Eliot stopped him, his voice softening. Maybe that was the part of Eliot that had him so fucked up. Everyone else saw him, and saw his reputation, his devil-may-care attitude, his complete and utter disregard for the decorum and traditions of the hallowed halls of Brakebills (which, to be fair, Brakebills didn’t deserve. Magic or not, they still made you sign a waiver that said ‘you die, your bad’, and convinced him to go off his antidepressants for a month, so, yeah. Magic was great, but fuck Brakebills). The face Eliot shared with the world was one that didn't care about anything, and why would he? Suns didn't care, they just burned. But for all his posturing, Eliot seemed to care more about everything than anyone he had ever met. He cared so much, he would drown in it if he didn’t build his walls so high. Quentin had barely seen a glimpse of the other side, and he knew he’d never actually be let through those gates, but it had been enough to consume him. He needed space, he needed time to collect himself, but he knew he’d never really be able to leave.

Eliot turned his attention back towards the bookshelf and cleared his throat. “Bambi _might_ have hid that spot as well. A basic reveal followed by Popper twelve and Tanaka’s Reverse Latch should open it up though. I’ll... see you later.”

He watched, possibly too transfixed, as Eliot spun back to his previous position, stepping towards the menagerie of brass carts with a _“So Ryan, where were we?”_ He was hoping- for what? For Eliot to push, to insist that he stick around? For Eliot to tuck him against his side while he gossiped about how Kimberly had accidentally singed her eyebrows off last year while trying to sneak her new dog past the campus wards, only to singe them off again a month later when the howling got so bad that none of the Physical Kids had been able to sleep for a week and she had to send it back to family on the outside? That despite having heard the same story from Eliot last month, he would laugh and bury himself deeper under Eliot's arm, because he had such a perfect way of telling stories? And maybe, just maybe, he’d finally get out of his own way, and accept that he wasn’t just tolerated, but actually wanted. And maybe he’d manage to wrap himself in that promise like a blanket, grip Eliot’s hand while nursing a mojito, and feel something close to secure. 

The problem with hopes, it turned out, was that they required the ability to voice what you wanted. That wasn’t him. It was fucking _exhausting_ , and here he was, still hoping to get his message across but not really expecting anything.

It took two tries, his hands shaking from anxiety or alcohol and he didn’t feel like asking which, but the sequence worked. A crack appeared between two units, then recessed to expose the sliding doorway that concealed his destination. He pushed, dreading that despite its concealment he would find the space otherwise occupied, because despite this nook being barely the size of a twin bed, only just tall enough to sit in, and also being a a _sacred study spot_ and not a hookup site, that wasn’t a distinction that really existed in the Cottage. But for maybe the first time since coming back from the library, luck was on his side. Margo’s spells had done their job and he was blissfully alone. 

Outside he could still hear Eliot, laughing melodically at something apparently _Ryan_ said. Apparently, he was so far gone he could pick out Eliot’s sound even through a closed screen and muffling wards. Apparently, he was so far gone he had no qualms about tearing himself apart with almost hatred for whoever else could draw those sounds from Eliot. Apparently, he wasn’t going to get over himself anytime soon.

Blissful. Right.

* * *

  
  


**10:08 PM**

As it turned out, hiding by yourself when you weren’t high _really sucked_.

He'd lasted maybe twenty minutes in the bookcase, as what was supposed to be an oasis was repeatedly interrupted by the crashing of bodies against a door they couldn't see and the impending sense that he was about to be caught somewhere he wasn't supposed to be, despite, you know, living here and being allowed to wander wherever he damn well pleased. Which led him to now, approximately five minutes post stepping out of his unimpressive sanctuary, when he’d had all of five seconds to assess the crowd and decide whether or not to say _‘fuck it’_ and dart back inside, before Todd had darted past him hand in hand with a ridiculously perky blonde Illusionist, and slammed it shut behind him with a “ _thanks man!”_ barely audible from this side of the cloaking wards.

So that was that.

It only took about thirty seconds of noise and people bumping into him and not knowing nor caring who more than half the people in attendance were for Quentin to decide _fuck it, there's no way I'm doing the rest of tonight sober_. Which led to its own breed of problem. 

The bar just—wasn’t an option. There was no denying that Eliot made a better drink than arguably anyone on campus, and watching him in his element was it’s own art form. But he couldn’t take more of Ryan’s loaded stares, or Eliot’s amused laughter, or Eliot reaching over and brushing Ryan’s hair back which- he definitely would. Quentin may have hated him a little, but he was a big enough person to admit when someone had like, perfect boy band hair. Only he preferred to imagine that particular gesture was his alone, and if Eliot shattered that illusion, showed him that he was no different than any of the other boys he dazzled only he _was_ different because he seemed to be the only one Eliot didn’t want-

Right. So, the not-really-a-bar wasn’t happening. And Julia hadn’t seemed to emerge from the coat room yet, so he couldn’t ask her to go for him. And he wasn’t inclined to trust the questionable punch bowl Todd had insisted on, that he only knew was Todd’s contribution because Margo had made sure to tell everyone she had nothing to do with that _‘undergrad party baby shit’_. Which left just one viable option for getting out of his mind, and he was currently sitting on the Cottage’s worn yellow sofa, which was probably stained with more bodily fluids than even the most extensive cleaning charms could handle but it also faced their second fireplace so, it was a fair trade off. Maybe.

Josh Hoberman was, for all that Quentin had seen, a generally chill guy. Though, to be fair, that was probably a side effect of being the most in demand dealer on campus. Outside of Cottage parties, their paths didn’t really cross, on account of both him living on the other side of campus and being in his third year, but when any celebration was in order he always seemed to be present with party favors and good vibes for all. 

When Quentin rounded the corner, he saw that most of the knowledge students who had congregated around Josh earlier had since vanished. The few who remained lay on the floor, tracing lines in the air, occasionally leaving trails of light in their wake, unraveling secrets of magic only they could see. Or they were tracing pictures of animals they imagined in the ceiling, odds were about fifty-fifty. 

“So, what’s this one do?” Quentin asked once he reached the edge of the coffee table, tentatively picking up one of the remaining joints fanned out across its surface. 

“Coldwater, my guy!” he exclaimed in his typical fashion, like everyone was his best friend even if he’d only just met them. It was pretty cool, in an aggressively heterosexual way, but that was just Josh he figured. “I’ve been cross breeding my ‘see into other worlds’ strain with some milder, more stress relieving blooms, and I think I’ve got the perfect party blend down. Haven’t figured out why it leaves your mouth tasting like lemongrass yet, but eh, it’s probably not dangerous. Wanna hit?”

Quentin couldn't help but chuckle. " Yeah, milder is probably a good idea. Remember when Julia tried it a couple weeks ago? She's still convinced she was looking at Fillory."

"Listen I don't care where she was seeing, I just wanna meet that Humbledrum dude, he sounds _amazing_ "

“What’s this Josh, you’re toning things down? For shame, for shame.”

_Jesus_ Quentin needed to develop a sense of awareness, if one more person snuck up on him tonight he was going to _jump out of his goddamn skin_ . He turned to where Eliot had approached, tried not to stare at him and his rolled up sleeves and perfect stray curl that always hung over his forehead as he practically glided past them and into the open sectional to their left. He tried not to visibly deflate as he noticed that Eliot hadn’t come alone. In one hand he held a cut glass bowl full of cherries. Quentin was pretty sure it was the same bowl he’d nearly had a heart attack over just a week past when Quentin couldn’t find any others and used it for cheerios, claiming it was only for ‘ _special occasions_ ’. In the other, he clasped the shoulder of yet another potential paramour. He wasn’t sure if the fact that it was Eliot’s third boy of the night (not that he was counting) made him feel better or worse.

“Yo Eliot!” Josh exclaimed, completely unaware of any tension Quentin may have brought into the air. God that sounded nice. “Hey weren’t you hanging out with Kyle earlier? Where’d he go?

“Who?” Eliot asked, eyebrow quirking, and popped a cherry into his mouth.

“Kyle? Yay high, blond, perfect hair and hanging onto you like a tumor about twenty minutes ago?” He continued, unperturbed by Eliot’s continued impassiveness. 

“I’m pretty sure that was Ryan.”

“Actually I’m Ryan,” interjected the new guy, who was distinctly _not_ a wiry blond with boy band hair, but did have a really warm smile and perfect teeth, and he was—shifting so he could lie across the sectional with his head in Eliot’s lap and Quentin took it all back. He wanted to punch him in his perfectly punchable teeth. He’d probably break his hand, and you know, feel really bad about it because he was probably a decent guy, but seriously. He could go fuck himself.

“Hmm,” Eliot mused, tangling his fingers in apparently-the-real-Ryan’s hair and smirking in a way that set off a direct line between his lizard-brain and his dick and now was _so not the time for this. He couldn’t even hide in the upstairs bathroom and jerk off,_ thanks _Margo._ He leaned back like he was a king, a _god,_ of self indulgence and hedonism and the Cottage was but his sovereign domain, and Quentin feared if Eliot didn’t stop that he would wind up desperately supplicating at his feet. “Sorry, but that’s not the name I want you repeating tonight. Nice try though. Open up.”

He had given up all pretense of not staring. Between Josh lighting up again, Eliot’s fixation on fucking _Ryan_ , who wriggled in his lap while Eliot placed a cherry on his tongue, keeping his hold on the stem all the while, and his not really giving a shit what anyone else watching thought, assuming they cared even remotely about the interpersonal dramas that plagued him, it hardly seemed to matter. 

“Good boy, wouldn’t you agree Q?” Eliot’s eyes flicked up and Quentin’s brain- he didn’t have a better explanation. It performed a hard factory reset. All prior knowledge and files were gone, and all that was left was the predatory gleam in Eliot’s eye and the overheating of his internal circuitry leaving him flushed.

“I—um—no comment—Hey I’m gonna get a drink you guys need anything? No? Cool—good talk.” He exhaled. His delivery was rushed and—in typical Coldwater fashion, wholly uncool. It was fine, he wasn’t exactly in a mood to get high anymore anyways. He just needed to get away and—fuck it, he was going to have to brave Todd’s punch bowl, wasn’t he? Figured. Hopefully whatever concoction Todd had thrown together wasn’t as disappointing as...everything else had been so far. Quentin wasn’t holding his breath.

He reached the threshold to the kitchen, where all snacks and non-recreational party fare had been staged, his heart still beating away like a jackhammer and his chest was begging to be cracked open. Without thinking, he looked back. Like Orpheus, facing what he longed for despite knowing the cost, all for the sake of that fleeting moment of wholeness, or some other maudlin bullshit from his freshmen classics lecture. Realistically, nothing would actually change if he turned. There was nothing behind for him to lose. Just the crackling of the fireplace, the movement of bodies in time with the rhythm, and a person who was never his to begin with.

Only—Eliot wasn’t eyeing the unfortunately attractive boy in his lap. His gaze seemingly hadn’t moved since Quentin’s hasty escape. If anything, it looked _more_ intense, a feature he would gladly credit to the gentle wasps of smoke softly obscuring his face. It was a flimsy lie, but Quentin was good at clinging to those. Slowly, too slowly to reasonably be called an accident by any measure, Eliot brought another of those fruits to his lips. To say he ate it would be to completely discount the subtle trace of his tongue across his lower lip, his smirk the moment his teeth punctured the cherry’s skin, the way he never broke eye contact and _never blinked_.

If his brain had short circuited before—it had been thrown into a goddamn swimming pool now.

He needed—air, another drink, any semblance of an idea what Eliot was even doing. He needed Julia. Todd’s undoubtedly mediocre punch would have to suffice for now.

**10:46**

"Well well, I've heard a rumour _someone's_ having an interesting night. Good thing I didn't let you bail, huh?"

Quentin coughed, almost spilling half his second cup of— _fine_ , admittedly not terrible punch all over the front of his shirt. Whatever. This was just his life now.

Margo Hanson was, as always, a sight to behold and she _knew_ it. Even in her heels, she was an inch or so shorter than him, but she managed to tower over everyone by sheer force of will. Her long dark waves were tied back in a messy bun that Quentin was sure no less than an hour of work and three spells had gone into styling, and she wore a red lace dress that made the copper tones of her skin sing. Her smile, sly and flirty, concealed barbs and commanded respect. Combined with the all-too-knowing look in her wide eyes and her stiletto sharp smile, she was dazzling. She was terrifying. She was living her best life, any who tried to stop her be damned. One of these days, Quentin would seriously have to assess what life choices led him to end up with such intimidating friends.

Still, he rolled his eyes, amused, deferring to her rule. “I know, right? God forbid anyone forgets who’s in charge here, all hail Queen Margo-”

“Hey, you joke but I’d look goddamn _amazing_ in a crown.” 

“What, because you don’t already have like, a dozen?”

“Oh, you’re not gonna fucking distract me that easy. Word is you were looking at Kyle earlier like you wanted to strangle him, what gives?”

A dozen questions flitted through Quentin's mind; really? Who actually cared enough about him to notice that? Who actually cared enough about that to notice _and bother Margo about it?_ Was that person alright? Were they stumbling around outside, transformed into a possum until morning came and they woke up wondering how they ended up naked in a tree, or did Margo reserve that treatment exclusively for guys who got too drunk and started harassing guests, like she'd done to that one psychic kid a few weeks back when he wouldn't stop perving on Camilla? Instead, Quentin settled on—“Kyle, or Ryan?”

Margo looked pensive for a moment, her head tilting in a way that meant she was either in deep thought, or didn't give a shit. No middle ground whatsoever. “Now that you ask, I’m really not sure.”

Well. That answered that. Unfortunately, Margo's confirmed lack of interest in the details did nothing to quell his bubbling anxiety. “Why would anyone even be talking about that anyways? I didn’t—I mean, I don’t _think_ I did—did I? They don’t think I’d actually—”

“Relax Coldwater, I’m fucking with you.” she laughed.

“Oh.”

“But hey, play your cards right and it looks like I won’t be the only one tonight.”

Quentin paused. He may have just deflated, but somehow he was left with the sinking feeling that all air was leaking from him and he couldn't find the leak. “Margo, I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She leveled him her most unimpressed stare. A tense second passed. Then two. Then, “God you two really do deserve each other.”

He blinked, and considered the pros and cons of asking Margo for clarification as to what praytell, the fuck she meant. Unfortunately, said list was all cons- he wouldn't actually get an answer, he'd look like an idiot, Margo would undoubtedly tease him for asking for at least a week, though in a fun way at least? Fortunately, he was saved from such a fate by Eliot swooping in, some elaborate amber drink garnished with a lime wedge in hand.

“Would you look at that, speak of the devil,” she beamed.

“Bambi,” he teased, seemingly indifferent to whatever Margo might have been referring to. That was their dynamic in a nutshell; only caring about the opinions of the other while acting entirely unaffected by them. It would have been baffling, if it didn't fit them like the designer labels they insisted on.

Eliot passed her the glass with a short bow that would have seemed mocking, were it directed at literally anyone else. "One Tamarindo Margarita, as requested."

"You used Mezcal, right?"

"I’m a little insulted you asked." He replied blankly, hand over his heart like there was even a slight chance he was actually offended.

Margo took a sip, seeming satisfied enough, and Quentin followed suit with his own drink. A comfortable quiet fell over them. Well, as quiet as anything could be with "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" blaring overhead, while your best friend who you were absurdly into flirted with other guys in front of you and _maybe_ flirted with you only maybe you were looking too much deeply into things and—wait, was Eliot flirting with him to make them jealous? Was dick #3 sitting in some corner, seething quietly until Eliot decided to sweep him back up? He blinked suddenly. “Wait, what happened with…?”

“Turns out he wasn’t that interesting." Eliot finished smoothly. Then, gesturing at Margo's glass, "Can I get you one?”

“Uh, er, no thanks, I’m—I’m good.” he lamely gestured with the plastic cup he was definitely _not_ acutely aware Eliot was judging. Still, easier to focus on the inadequacies of his tableware than—

Margo grimaced to his side. “Seriously?”

“What?" He shrugged. "It’s actually kind of good, don’t know why Todd called it punch, it’s really more of a sangria—”

“Nonsense. I’ll have to take you to Ibiza sometime, show you how it’s really made.”

Interruption aside, of _course_ Eliot couldn't dream of doing even the most basic shit without making it into a production. Not that the idea of Eliot at the beach, hair tossed back and shirt unbuttoned wasn't incredibly enticing, and Quentin swallowed and he needed to cut off this train of thought _immediately_. “What, you couldn’t just make them here?” he stammered.

“I mean, it’s not the same without the view, but I could probably whip up a sensory overlay spell in my room. You could always join me for a few drinks later.”

The science behind chills running down one's spine was...tremendously boring. It was just the interplay of human emotion and the hypothalamus. When frightened, this easily overlooked part of the brain would tell the tiniest muscles in your skin to contract, to pull even your most unnoticeable hairs upright. It was equal parts the body seeking insulation and a desperate callback to a time when humans might have had enough fur for the contraction to make them seem less small. Unfortunately the hypothalamus was an oversensitive little bitch and was shit at distinguishing sadness, or excitement, or any other strong enough emotion from fear. Chills ran down Quentin's back, in desperate reaction to the low tone of Eliot's voice, the almost whisper of it. For a moment he understood exactly why the hypothalamus was so lost, and despite his body's best efforts he still felt unfathomably small.

The sound of Margo clearing her throat alerted Quentin that he had been staring up at Eliot for a probably uncomfortable amount of time. Eliot had been staring back, sure, but—he was weirdly intense like that. It didn't mean anything. “And that’s my cue to go. Have fun boys, and hey—" she paused to point at Quentin as she turned, "don’t fuck this up.” 

She was gone before he could ask _what he was fucking up_ despite being fully aware that asking would yield no results, lost in the fray and grabbing the shoulder of a girl he recognized from Minor Mendings—her name night have been Madi?—to dance. He chanced a look back at Eliot, and almost ignored the butterflies threatening to crawl their way up his throat. “Do you have...any idea what she’s talking about?”

Eliot waved a hand dismissively. “Honestly I usually find it best not to question her. So, no. Now, how about those drinks, interested?”

He stilled. It wasn't like Eliot hadn't invited him to the attic before. Just last Tuesday he and Margo had spent a good hour sprawled across Eliot's bedspread, pestering him about his lack of Buffy knowledge and periodically throwing popcorn at him. This... didn't feel like that. Eliot was flippant, carefree, the way he always was when inviting Quentin up to relax after too long studying, or down to a party he probably would have skipped otherwise, or out into the city to track down missing books they still weren't sure how they lost. But there was a weight to his gaze, like the answer to the question of ' _do you want a drink?'_ could actually be _'sure, but only if you'd let me lick it off your stomach'_ , and Eliot might even laugh and reply _'why the fuck not?'_.

The science behind chills running down one's spine was bullshit. But Quentin had chills and the distinction between arousal and fear was entirely pointless as his mind endlessly circled from the gleam in Eliot's eye; the slight tilt of his head that conveyed that his offer was unremarkable, betrayed by the probably imagined nervous set of his shoulders, and the unwavering idea that Eliot was _just fucking with him_. The air felt heavy, or maybe it felt like it was all gone—who could fucking tell. All he knew was that he was gaping like a fish and he had no idea what to say.

“That—that sounds like it’d be really nice sometime,” he finally blurted without thinking. It wasn't the worst answer though, easy enough to pass off as normal conversation if you ignored his breathlessness, and hopefully an end to this line of confusion.

Maybe it was the punch—sangria— _whatever_ , maybe it was the noise and the lights, maybe it was the rush of emotions, but Quentin swayed forward ever so slightly, towards Eliot. And Eliot...

“Yo Coldwater!” an intense voice called from- from way too close _fuck_ she was loud. Kady stepped up behind him and gripped his shoulder, clearly indifferent to the emotional motion sickness that was Quentin's life.. “Your best friend is drunk and wants to dance. Specifically, with you. Get your ass out here okay?”

“I—um—okay yeah.” he stammered, then glanced from Kady to Eliot. “I’ll see you later?”

Eliot—Quentin must have been drunker that he thought because he looked like he was glowing, stepped back with grace, his eyes unreadable but fuck if Quentin didn't want to try. "Of course you will. Go, dance, the night’s still young after all.”

He barely had time to awkwardly wave before Kady was dragging him across the house and _damn_ she had a strong grip. But Eliot smiled, and laughed a little before Quentin lost sight of him, and maybe he would be able to convince his brain to shut up for this one. Sure, so Eliot clearly wanted... _some_ sort of reaction from him, and okay, _maybe_ he was the universe's punchline and this would all turn out to be some sort of joke, but. Eliot smiled, and that felt like enough to believe that he was just overthinking, that everything was going to be fine.

**11:15**

So things were—objectively, _not_ fine.

It actually hadn't been that bad when he'd first been brought to Julia. Her hair was in a state of artful disarray, which Kady had claimed responsibility for with pride and zero hesitation. She'd then let go of Quentin's arm with a proclamation of _'later bitches'_ , before leaving them to—he didn't know, lean against the wall and judge people while smoking and being hot? Regardless, Julia was peak white girl wasted—or, _'more like whatever the non-white equivalent is_ — _oh Q this is our song!'_ —and while Quentin wasn't quite near her level, he was feeling good enough to go with it. If he was going to be down here for another hour, he might as well have fun with it.

So they laughed and worked their way through several half-remembered cringe-inducing middle school dance sequences while Quentin told himself everyone around them was too drunk or too indifferent to stare at how much he couldn't dance. Julia spun until she was dizzy, he laughed until his sides hurt, and then Julia had to ruin everything.

She peered over his shoulder, grinning at whatever she saw, before announcing "so, it looks like _someone's_ watching you."

Blinking, Quentin looked back and—Eliot was there. _Again_. He wasn't close, just leaning inconspicuously by the window while Margo bantered away, possibly-Madi still tucked under her arm. Were it not for the subtle flicker of his eyes from where they stood to the rim of his glass, Quentin would have assumed he hadn't even noticed them. So that was...weird. 

Once was random. Twice was a coincidence. Three times was ironclad proof that Eliot was following him despite probably having better things to do. Like the hunky third year illusionist who had dominated the Welters tournament this year and was approaching Eliot fast and Eliot—was holding up a hand to stop him, his lips (that Quentin was _n_ ot staring at) clearly forming the words _"thanks, but I'm not interested"_.

Eliot's attention turned towards Quentin, who was still staring. His throat went dry and his face grew hot, and he was sure his flush was visible across the room even in this light. Great. And chuckled softly, and raised his glass slightly towards him, a toast to... whatever the fuck had just happened. Quentin waved lamely, then turned back towards Julia, opting to pretend the whole exchange didn't happen. 

"Maybe but—I don't know I think he's just being a good friend. You know, keeping an eye out since I didn't want to—like, be here in the first place."

Julia snorted. "Yeah, uh-huh, right. He's _totally_ checking you out. Who knows, maybe your crush isn't as one sided as you-"

"Hey hey hey not so loud!" He rushed. Fuck, he knew _objectively_ that no one could hear her, or if they could they really didn't care, but still. No one ever argued that brains had to be rational. "It's—that's definitely not what's happening Jules."

Julia's eyes softened, which somehow managed to make her look both wiser and significantly less drunk. "Q," she pleaded.

"Julia, I'd really rather not talk about it." Quentin interrupted, his tone final. Talking about it meant thinking about it, which meant asking what the hell Eliot was playing at. Maybe this was all—a joke, a dare, a fucking ploy from some scorned ex trying to make him do something he'd regret. Maybe he was reading way too much into this, Eliot's friendship had always been tactile. This was a natural progression, right? Or maybe it meant something. Maybe it was a fucking game, see how worked up he could make his extremely high strung friend—except, that wasn't fair. Eliot was a lot of things. Flippant, arrogant, kind of pretentious, but he was never cruel. So maybe, _just maybe,_ his feelings weren't so alone. Or maybe the weight of wondering would crush him.

Regardless, Quentin found himself immensely grateful for the Cottage’s insistence on plying every student on Brakebills campus with copious amounts of alcohol, because if Julia was even slightly more sober she wouldn’t have dropped this. Her face fell, and Quentin almost changed his mind. Almost decided to say _fuck it_ and talk about it, even if he hated it, since apparently despite being _well_ over it having a crush on someone for almost a decade hard wires you to feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach every time they’re even a little sad. Fortunately he was saved from having to be honest about his feelings by the opening riff of _Shut Up and Dance_ playing above them, and Julia excitedly dragging him further onto the Cottage’s makeshift dance floor.

The next few moments passed by on autopilot. He turned. He walked to the edge of the sea of people Julia had dragged him into. He sighed and wondered if he should have begged Alice to get him out of here too like, three hours ago. He told himself to be happy for Julia, and watched her laugh while Penny kissed her forehead and Kady pushed a water bottle into her hands. He told himself not to imagine that was him and Eliot. He imagined it anyway.

Overhead, Robyn crooned _I'm right over here, Why can't you see me? Oh oh oh_. Robyn could go fuck herself.

While Julia was still having a great time (and God was she going to feel like shit tomorrow morning), his heart wasn’t in it anymore. So she danced, and he nodded beside her at appropriate intervals, and she seemed appeased. After a few minutes, Julia shouted over the crowd for—honestly he wasn’t listening, but presumably for Kady and Penny to join her, since moments later they came up behind her and only rolled their eyes a little. If they noticed Quentin, they didn’t show it, and that was more than fine by him. He didn’t know Kady well enough to get what drew Julia to her, and he sure as hell didn’t understand what she saw in Penny, but—as he stepped away, preparing to make his escape, he caught the way Julia lit up when she looked up at Penny. How his face softened at her smile, how Kady seemed so much less angry when tucking her chin over Julia’s shoulder. His chest clenched with want, and he was growing weaker to crush it.

Maybe that was why he didn't pull away when Eliot walked up behind him, the smell of his cologne engulfing Quentin's senses even over waves of smoke and spilled drinks. It undoubtedly contributed to his sinking against Eliot’s chest when all Eliot had done was _put a goddamn hand on his shoulder_ to let him know he was there. He didn’t have a justification for how he’d closed his eyes and sighed when Eliot draped his arm around his chest, tucked Quentin under his chin and inhaled by his temple. That one was all to blame on his treacherous heart.

And—Quentin's stomach dropped out. What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck were _either_ of them doing? God, Eliot had to be _really_ drunk, because Quentin sure as shit didn't know what he wanted, but it definitely wasn't this. He went completely tense, his chest immovable as the walls seemed to close in around him. He needed—he needed—

"I've gotta go get some air." He exhaled, the sentence coming out as one word. Tearing out from under Eliot's arm fucking _sucked_ but it had to be done. Everything was wrong, everything _felt_ wrong, and Quentin knew he was being irrational but no one had ever argued that brains were supposed to be rational before. All that mattered was he needed to get _out of here_.

It was easier not to look back this time. Quentin wasn't sure what to make of that.

**11:27**

The stairs may have been warded off, but at least the doors still worked. It was probably a good ten degrees cooler here, and the crickets could only do so much to overpower the music leaking from inside, but Quentin had the patio to himself—at least, he had once he crashed through the doors without a second glance and Tay had gathered their friends from around the fire pit and pulled everyone inside—and that was more than he could ask for. His rasping breaths felt louder by the second, and if he'd had the presence of mind to think anything coherent, he'd be grateful for the lack of witnesses to his hyperventilation.

As it stood, all he could ask was what the fuck Eliot was trying to get from him, and how much would the impact hurt when he stopped falling and found out? He tucked his head between his knees and cursed the crickets for not having any answers. The Cottage door opened and closed behind him, and he hoped whoever had come to the threshold had changed their mind, or at least that they would smoke their cigarette, ignore him completely, and leave.

“Dude, even I can’t watch this anymore, come on.”

Of fucking course.

“Penny, can you please—not, right now?” Quentin croaked, too exhausted to even be embarrassed by the crack of his voice. Penny laughed softly, but there was no real humor to it.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Quentin silently cursed the ground, then looked up to glare at Penny. “Look, just—can you just go back inside, and—I’ll tell Julia you checked on me or whatever, you don’t have to worry about—”

“Julia didn’t send me,” he interrupted.

“Oh.”

The quiet hung heavy over them. An oppressive curtain woven with general disinterest and months of hard feelings over being probably the worst matched first semester roommates in Brakebills history. Then Penny sighed, and climbed down to sit beside him on the Cottage's retaining wall. “Look man, I don’t really give a shit. I’m only out here because I’m getting real tired of your brooding—”

“I’m not brooding.” he lied.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” Penny scoffed. But his expression softened not long after, and Quentin wasn't sure if he hated it or not. “But seriously. So Eliot’s driving you up the wall—”

“Can you _please_ stay out of my head?”

“Believe me, I am _trying_ . But like, okay so maybe he’s messing with you. Just —fucking call him on it, try _talking to him_. For real, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Quentin blinked. There were...a lot of worst things that could happen. Eliot could laugh at him for even assuming there was a _chance_ he would flirt with Quentin, let alone sleep with him, let alone _consider_ anything more. He probably wouldn't even mean it in a mean way, it would just be a fact; the sky was blue, Eliot was a walking dream stepped right out of a baroque masterpiece, and Quentin was inherently unwanted. Eliot would try to pass it off as something light, and Quentin would pretend to go along with it, and hell Margo might even be nice enough to not bring it up. But it would hurt. Eventually he'd pull away from their trio, and would go back to peddling around behind Julia only now he'd be third wheeling it to her relationships and she'd have better things to do than be held back by him and there was _no way_ he was planning on sharing any of that with Penny. He'd probably already seen it, because psychics were assholes, but it was the principal of the matter. Still—“Are you...trying to be encouraging?”

Penny scoffed again, louder and—yeah, this was way more the Penny he knew. “No. And if anyone asks, this conversation never happened.”

As far as excuses went, it was far from convincing. Quentin would know, he was the reigning king of deluding oneself. So maybe this was more the Penny Julia saw, still the worst but...“You—you’re seriously an asshole. But you’re...not really that bad, are you?”

“Honestly I’m just tired of watching you putz around like a limp nutsack. Just fucking talk to him, man."

He wouldn't. He probably wouldn't.

Quentin sunk a little, knowing he really should. “Okay...um...thanks.”

"Yeah, sure." Penny shrugged, like acknowledging that they'd almost had a real conversation was beneath him. Which, it probably was. But for a moment, Quentin could at least pretend. That Julia really hadn't sent Penny, that there was a chance in hell Eliot could actually want him back, that he'd have the nerve to ask. Hell, Penny was right. If he was just going to tear himself apart either way, what did he have to lose?

**11:46**

Tomorrow. Quentin was going to talk to Eliot tomorrow. Or next week. Maybe next month. Possibly never. Fuck.

There was only so much time he could spend sitting on the patio next to Penny before it got... really fucking weird, a fact which had brought Quentin back inside to pace back and forth before the staircase, counting the seconds before he could get back to his room.

He checked his phone again. 11:47.

The party was still going strong, despite midnight drawing near. It wasn't surprising, the Physical Kids were known for keeping things running high into the early hours, and noise complaints weren't an issue when everyone had soundproofing wards around their rooms and Quentin was very much looking forward to getting behind his. The sooner, the better. He'd managed to avoid being seen by anyone who might have cared to make small talk, and as much as he wanted to find Margaret and ask her to let him up early He suspected she would just keep the charm up another hour in response. Or worse, she would give him one of her rare, truly concerned smiles, and let him pass without pushing. Quentin's hands clenched open and closed by his sides, eager to check the time again despite his rational brain declaring it had been less than a minute since he last looked while his irrational brain shouted back _"but it might have been two!"_

So of course, that was when Eliot decided to round the corner. Quentin stilled, hoping Eliot would pass by, continue his treck to find—Margo, Todd in possession of his favorite muddler, mother fucking _Ryan_ , but that wasn't his luck. Eliot honed in on him, like a drowning man to land, or a hunter to prey. His hand was raised in placation, his eyes worried, and Quentin braced himself for the worst; _I'm sorry, I was drunker than I realized. Don't take this the wrong way, but. Well that was embarrassing, I must have mistaken you for someone else_ —and on, and on.

"Quentin, I—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you so... Are you alri—?"

Quentin swallowed, tried to ignore the clamminess of his palms. He could handle this, he would come up with a calm and reasonable way to tell Eliot that everything was fine, and he was just tired. He took a deep breath, and—”Eliot, what the fuck?”

Or that. His mouth began to form an apology before he had the words, but Eliot beat him to it. “Okaaay...I probably deserve that, but a little clarity would be welcome. What’s wrong?"

The set of Eliot's eyes, the lines of his shoulders, all of it was wrong. He wasn't supposed to be the tense one, not when Quentin had been the one yanked around for the last three hours. “Come on El don’t do this, I’ve been watching you all night!”

“Understandable, I’m very much worth watching, but- Q how much have you had to drink?” 

“Fuck you, nothing for the last hour; stop changing the subject.”

In the battle between whether Eliot's tension or shitty deflective humor was worse, the winner was hands down the raw open... something he switched to in that moment. It was a face Quentin hadn't seen since his first month here, when he'd been struggling to even levitate a fucking marble and was so sure he was going to be expelled, and Eliot had sat with him out back and smoked and promised he wasn't alone and Quentin wanted to _scream_.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” he looked down, and Quentin missed his eye contact as much as he was glad it was gone. “I...I crossed a line, I promise I wasn’t trying to hurt you-”

“Are you serious right now?" He barked. His forehead was pounding and the shitty little hallway keeping him down here felt painfully small and he _just. Didn't. Care._ "I—You—Really? Look, Eliot, I I get it, you’re—well, you’re you, and you’re gonna—” 

The room spun. Quentin cursed his luck, of _course_ he would start panicking. He cursed Eliot for interrupting with a steadying grip on his shoulder. He mostly cursed himself for not doing more to avoid this altogether. “Okay Q, breathe, just breathe with me, do you want me to get Julia?”

_No_ he didn't fucking want Julia, he wanted to be able to just act like a person, to not hyperventilate at the mere _thought_ of talking about his shit. But here he was, a black hole through and through. “Damn it, I—I don’t know what you _want_ from me—Do you have any idea how much it sucks just—watching you with everyone else and— _Fuck_ why don’t you want that from _me_?”

Later, Quentin would regret looking up at the ceiling. He would be upset that he'd missed the moment something switched on Eliot's face, wishing he’d watched the decision as it was born. But, Eliot had slid his hands up to cup the sides of his face, and before Quentin could ask _'what?'_ , Eliot was pulling him upwards and _Eliot was kissing him holy shit_.

Time froze. There wasn't anything but the heat of Eliot's mouth on his, the glide of his tongue as Quentin parted his lips, the sharp inhale of breath that could have belonged to either of them as Eliot pulled him closer. Everyone in the Cottage, everyone in mother fucking New York could be watching them, and Quentin wouldn't have given a shit if it meant this didn't _stop_ . But fortunately—unfortunately— _whatever,_ one of them had some willpower and Eliot pulled back, and Quentin absolutely did _not_ keen desperately at the separation. His thumb gently stroked across Quentin's cheek as he went and Quentin's knees nearly gave out on him.

Eliot's face was unreadable, or maybe it was perfectly clear and Quentin was unfathomably oblivious. Either option was feeling pretty likely at this point. He glanced down, chuckling self consciously. "God, Margo was right, we're both idiots...I really hope I read things right that time because I've wanted to do that all... suffice to say it's been a while."

Right. Definitely the unfathomable obliviousness. 

He considered asking if _'a while'_ meant ' _since I first saw you sprawled across the Brakebills sign, cigarette in hand like you merely tolerated the confines of reality, because same'_ . Instead Quentin opted to surge forward and kiss him again. He was going to memorize the way Eliot yielded when he leaned into his chest, right before pushing Quentin against the wall, the heat of his breath against Quentin's cheek, the strength of his back beneath Quentin's hands and the way Eliot's muscles moved as he gripped the back of Quentin's neck. Quentin was breathing heavily, but more easily than he had all night. Tilting his head back as hard as he was felt too much like baring his throat, but for Eliot, he would, he would. There was a heat unfolding within Quentin, compelling him to grip onto Eliot tighter. And the tense of Eliot's shoulders, the fervor of his tongue, the slotting of his thigh between Quentin's legs all said he wasn't alone. It felt like a wave was crashing over them, like a million sparks lighting every millimeter of his body on fire, like fucking _magic_.

Not like. Exactly. A shimmer ran through the air, and Quentin pulled away and blinked. He wouldn't have to check his phone to know midnight had finally passed. Eliot looked fevered, frantic, and _he had done that to him_.

He took another breath. Then two. Now or never, right? "Take me upstairs. _Now_."

* * *

Eliot's eyes flashed, his pupils dilating. He leaned forward to claim Quentin's lips again. The kiss was short, but filthy, all tongue and teeth and _mine_. His mouth had barely separated from Quentin's when he rasped, "With pleasure."

  
  


The agreement to take things to Eliot's room was a silent one. In part because being on the third floor meant fewer chances of drunk classmates interrupting them when they tried to get into the wrong room, and in part because Eliot's bed was bigger _and_ he seemed the type to believe in doing things on fine supima cotton or not at all. Which—whatever, sheets were sheets and his flannel ones were fine, but Quentin wasn't exactly in a mood to complain 

The biggest downside was how long it was taking to get behind closed doors. There was only so much he could _care_ about ‘privacy’ and ‘decency’ when Eliot kept pushing him against the hallway walls and kissing him breathless. It only got worse when halfway through the second floor, when he’d pinned Eliot back and started to unfasten the buttons of his vest, Eliot had grabbed his hands and pulled them to his sides and whispered in his ear _“Impatient, aren’t we? Relax, we have all night...”_ and first, Quentin had wanted to argue that they didn’t have all night, but more importantly, Quentin had wanted to drop to his knees and see if Eliot would stay so composed if he went for his belt. He needed Eliot’s dick in his mouth. Or his dick in Eliot’s hand. Suffice to say, he needed a dick to go somewhere and he needed it _now_.

  
  


When they finally made it to the other side of Eliot's doorway, panting with need and shaking enough that it took Eliot two tries to unlock his rooms' wards, Quentin wasted no time pressing Eliot back against his door. It was a rush, knowing full well that Eliot, with his towering stature and telekinetic gifts, could easily overpower Quentin, but that he trusted him enough to let him push. Quentin made quick work of the top few buttons of Eliot's shirt, the expanse of his chest making Quentin's mouth water. It was no surprise that his tongue, his teeth, _had_ to make acquaintances with Eliot's collarbone, and Eliot responded in kind by slipping one hand under the back of his shirt, the other firmly gripping his ass. He gasped at the contact, the heat of Eliot's growing hard-on, grinding his hips closer. Quentin was lost in the need for friction and the scent of Eliot's fading cologne. His skin was alight everywhere Eliot touched. In a way, being here felt so much like the first time he did real magic; the air humming with potential, his own body vibrating with a fervor it could barely contain, and his mind half convinced none of it was real.

It was there, with one of Quentin's hands splayed across the solid flesh of his pecs and the other fighting with his vest set to a complaint of _"God, you wear too many layers"_ , when Eliot said, "Well yes, it isn't a full day unless I've driven at least one cute boy completely mad, but...I really hate to say this, but we should probably talk."

If that wasn't the worst possible idea in that moment, Quentin didn't know what was. Why would they talk when Quentin could go back to memorizing the taste of his sweat, cataloguing each and every moan that passed his lips. "Is that really what you want to do right now?" he murmured into his skin.

" _God_ no," Eliot exhaled, "But. Q, are you...do you really want this?"

His voice wavered with concern, his grip on Quentin's back loosening. Quentin paused; He'd finally gotten Eliot's vest off and was halfway through the buttons of his shirt, hands shaking with want, but, fine. They were talking. Not that he was happy about. "Obviously not, can't you tell?" he deadpanned. Eliot responded with a short bark of laughter.

"Hey, I sort of have to ask, alright? I've invited you up here like, a couple of times tonight—"

"You did?" He blinked. Eliot moved his hand to cup the back of Quentin's neck, and Quentin felt his legs go weak. He'd imagined what it would be like to be seduced by Eliot more times than he cared to count, he wasn't too proud to admit it. He'd conjured hurried fantasies of late night drunken trysts they would barely remember in the morning, visions of Eliot selecting him as one of _his boys_ and keeping him desperate and needy for days before finally giving in, more than once he'd woken in the middle of the night painfully hard after dreams of Eliot staring him up and down, and concluding his assessment with a _'nevermind, I think a private entry exam is more in order for you'_. But he's never imagined Eliot would be this tender, this raw. 

He sighed. "I did, and I was pretty sure you said yes the last time. In your defense I should have known better than to try subtlety, but yes. And not five minutes ago you were freaking out over... I'm not really sure what."

Quentin looked down. In hindsight his worries all seemed so absurd, but again. No one ever argued that brains were even remotely rational. "I...kind of assumed you were fucking with me."

"Q—"

"Not that I—I mean, I didn't think you _actually_ would, it's just—you'd never seemed interested before and suddenly you're going from hanging all over who-fucking-cares to like, _this_ , and it just—you know? I'm not making any sense, am I?"

Eliot grimaced slightly, and God damn it, it shouldn't have been possible to be that beautiful while cringing. "No, you are, and you're...maybe not entirely wrong—it's not what you're thinking, I promise," he interrupted himself in response to Quentin's entire body going tense, which did nothing to quell the fresh pit in his stomach. "You'd never... I'd never seen you seem to be... interested. Or I guess if you had, I'd...anyways you were pretty flustered when I left you by the bookshelves and I was testing a theory. It was pretty shitty of me."

"What, you couldn't just ask?" He balked. He was torn between frustration and the need to get Eliot's tongue back down his throat, and finding out they could have been doing this sooner wasn't helping. Only; why hadn't _he_ asked? How many times could he have leaned across the table and kissed him? How many times had he looked up from a textbook while Eliot and Margo did their nails and pretended like they never had to study and thought _“I could tell him, right now. I could.”_ only to back down because he was afraid. Of rejection, of fucking up the best friendship he had right now, of losing a person who meant so much to him all because he couldn’t be happy with what he had and—

Oh. _Oh._

Quentin deflated, but it wasn’t exhaustion. Just relief. He tucked himself under Eliot’s chin and let himself finally relax into the sensation of being completely surrounded by him. "No, I get it. God Margo's right, we are both idiots."

"She'll definitely be glad to hear that." Eliot chuckled, carding his fingers through Quentin’s hair and all of his thoughts were replaced with a one-two-punch of how good it felt and how much he wanted to feel Eliot _pull_. He leaned back, hips still flush with Eliot’s but looking him in the eye now.

He smirked. "Undoubtedly. Now do you want to keep talking or can I blow you?"

The air between them fucking _electrified_ . Eliot's eyes widened slightly, and it lit a fire straight to Quentin's core. When a moment later, Eliot replied "By all means,” his composure was paper thin and _fuck_ , he had _done that to him_.

Quentin tore his shirt off, throwing it haphazardly to Eliot’s floor and hoping with any luck his clothes would be seeing a lot more of that space, then made quick work of Eliot's belt. It was the first garment he'd gone for that didn't seem entirely arbitrary (and yes, that included Eliot's shirt. Once Quentin had gotten a full view of his elegant frame, the curls of dark chest hair he'd so frequently glimpsed but never before caught the full force of, he wondered why it wasn't illegal for Eliot to even put one on). He pulled Eliot down for another kiss, softer this time. Relished in the warmth of Eliot’s lips, the exhale of his breath against Quentin’s cheek, the way he yielded when Quentin ran his tongue across his lips, before dropping to his knees with all the bravado he could muster. Which admittedly, wasn’t much, but for once he didn’t feel completely self conscious about it. Only like, 20%. Which was sort of his baseline around Eliot, so, small victories. Eliot canted his hips forward as he grabbed the waistband of his trousers, and Quentin was even nice enough to keep his eye rolling to himself over Eliot’s moderately absurd silk briefs. Though admittedly, he looked damn good in them. Or maybe that was just the impressive erection he was sporting behind them. Regardless. Quentin places a kiss on the V of his hips, breathed him in as he pulled Eliot’s trousers down to his ankles—

Ah. Well.

Admittedly, Quentin’s experience with dicks other than his own was...limited. He’d wasted most of high school pining over Julia, and Columbia hadn’t been a great environment for him to consider actual dating. In short, between the couple of sloppy, drunk blowjobs and the perfectly sufficient dildo in his room downstairs, he hadn’t had much of a chance to experience the full scope of human variance that existed.

And Eliot’s dick was very much _not_ a starter dick.

Honestly he shouldn’t have expected anything less. Eliot himself was all long lines and deceptive strength, why would his cock be any different? Long and thick, with a rose flush and ever so elegantly curved; fuck, even the _veins_ running down it’s surface were a work of art. Quentin was hit with two immediate conclusions; he _very much_ wanted Eliot inside him, and that was _definitely_ not happening tonight. Probably. Odds were fifty-fifty. He laid an experimental lick up the side of Eliot's erection, savoring the bead of pre-come at the head and the way his abdomen clenched at the touch. It was beautiful, a word he'd never thought he'd use to describe a dick but, it was Eliot's, and it felt even bigger against his mouth than it looked. Yeah, alright, that probably wasn't a good challenge to take on tonight. Maybe next time. Quentin reeled at the realization finally hitting him that there would even _be_ a next time. The weight of Eliot against his tongue was blissful, his hand resting on Quentin's scalp sent sparks through his body. So of course, in typical Coldwater fashion, as he tried to filter through the possibilities for the night, his mouth decided to interfere before his brain could catch up.

“Can I fuck you?” Quentin blurted out, his tongue mere centimeters from where it had been worshiping the base of Eliot’s cock. Eliot inhaled sharply and almost instantly, Quentin froze, mortified. Was that too crass? Did anyone actually say shit like that during sex? Had he crossed some unspoken line? Did Eliot even bottom? Quentin’s face grew hot, and he glanced up with a dozen excuses and backpedals prepared—but Eliot wasn’t looking at him like he wanted any of them. The lids of his eyes hung heavy with the intensity of his gaze, sending prickles down the back of Quentin’s neck which were only overpowered by the steady grip of Eliot’s hand tugging his hair. The noise he made was not entirely dignified, but if it meant Eliot would keep looking at him like that then he’d cry out for him all damn day. Which actually sounded like a really good way to spend a weekend. He’d have to remember to bring it up later.

He exhaled slowly, drawing his hand forward to tip Quentin’s chin further up. If Quentin weren’t already on his knees, he knew, he would have dropped then and there, no matter where they were. “ _God_ , whatever you want baby,” Eliot whispered. If Quentin’s bulge weren’t straining against his jeans already, that one look would have taken him all the way.

Eliot stepped out of his shoes, tossing them and his pants to the side. For a moment Quentin wondered if this was his usual habit, or if he wasn’t worried about his trousers _‘not wrinkling’_ because he was just as frenzied as Quentin was. Once Eliot was settled, his hand carded in Quentin’s hair, Quentin grabbed onto his hips and swallowed down as much of his length as he could in earnest. Admittedly, less than he would have liked, but if the sounds spilling from Eliot’s throat were anything to go by, he wasn’t complaining. Quentin drew his tongue down the underside, pulled almost all the way off and circled his tongue around the head, against his slit. Eliot’s abs contracted under his hands, the salt of his skin and musk of his scent consuming Quentin. He swore under his breath when Quentin sunk back down and hollowed his cheeks. He just needed _more._

“Fuck,” Eliot breathed with a slight laugh, “where have you been this whole time?”

Quentin did slide all the way off Eliot’s length this time, his mouth making a faint ‘pop’ at their point of separation. “Down stairs and across the hall, same as the last six months. You can pull harder by the way.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, Q.” he moaned. Though, he also gave Quentin’s scalp a tentative tug that went straight to his dick, so, message received.

“Yeah, but what a way to go.” Quentin smirked, before diving back in.

The last time Quentin had been on the giving end of a blowjob had been his second sophomore semester. Eric had been a nice enough guy, at least for one of James' finance bro friends who frequented the dumb frat parties James likes to drag him and Julia to. Unfortunately, he'd also had a tragic case of upper-class New England repression, and Quentin's self esteem, not much better now but marginally improved, had been low enough he hadn't thought to protest Eric's insistence they not be seen together or until he'd had enough drinks to not care what people thought of Quentin hanging onto him. Not that there'd ever been any hanging of any kind. They'd only been sneaking around for two weeks when Quentin had offered to blow him in the fraternity's laundry room. They'd barely started when Eric had thrown up in his hair and Quentin had been forced to sneak out the back door. He'd never called Eric back, and Eric had never called him, and come to think of it—he actually was a massive douche. 

The point being, experience was no friend of Quentin's. He didn't know any fancy techniques, or just the right way to curl his tongue to make someone scream, but he knew desire. He knew he wanted to bury himself in the heat of Eliot, to drown in the depths of his feelings and find a thriving civilization where they could stay together on the ocean floor, and he wanted Eliot to feel it too. He even believed he might, felt it in the clench of Eliot's thighs, the way he hissed when Quentin hollowed his cheeks, and he would murmur _"that's perfect"_ , and _"good boy"_ , and gripped his hair a little tighter.

"Q," he said a little clearer, and Quentin grinned at the forced composure in his voice, "if you don't stop doing that thing with your tongue, I'm not going to last."

Quentin let Eliot slip from his mouth, and wiped away the worst of his spit and Eliot's pre-come from his lip with the back of his hand. "Really? I thought that was the point."

“Really? I thought the point was for you to fuck me.” Eliot grinned salaciously, and Quentin swore it tore all the air from his lungs. The gleam in Eliot's eye left him dizzy, with barely enough focus to mutter _"oh."_

Eliot helped pull him back to his feet and kissed him _hard_ . Quentin could taste the echo of Eliot's earthiness on his tongue; the thought that Eliot was tasting himself left him panting. His skin was on fire under Eliot's hands, and simultaneously his touch was the only thing that could quell the flames within him. He gripped the front of Eliot's open shirt, while Eliot held the sides of his face and pulled him upwards, teeth clacking and tongue fucking into Quentin's mouth. He walked Quentin backwards, maintaining his hold with each step, until the backs of Quentin's knees touched his mattress and they separated, gasping. He looked up at Eliot, dazed, rapturous, fucking _high_. Eliot was the best drug he'd ever tried; better than pot, than Ablify, than those little pink tablets they sometimes had out at parties that made you feel like you were a literal cloud of light, and the look on his face when Quentin turned him around and pushed him back into his bed felt like being hit with its full dosage.

_Fuck_ he needed to get out of these jeans. _Now_.

As Quentin struggled with his pants, Eliot propped himself onto his elbows, his gaze intent and his body bathed in moonlight. The only word that came to mind for him was ethereal. Too perfect by half, too...everything. Quentin fought the urge to look down as his own body; too short, too square, not muscular enough. Self consciousness bubbled its way up his chest, and it must have shown on his face because Eliot was sitting all the way up. He slid his shirt the rest of the way off his arms and let his face soften. “Well? Are you going to join me anytime soon?”

It wasn't quite enough to quiet his nerves for now, but it was a start. He nodded, and climbed over Eliot, straddling him. His breaths were coming harder than they should, his hands still shaking.

“Hey, um, where do you keep your lube?” Quentin stammered

“There’s actually a spell for that I prefer.” Eliot replied coolly.

“That really shouldn’t surprise me…”

He laughed softly, and placed a quick kiss on Quentin's lips. Chaste, or at least as much so as Eliot was capable, reassuring, and no less passionate. “Yes, the Greeks did cover most of the basics. Or at least they wrote them down. Who knows where they might have stolen it from. Here, let me show you. There’s also one for protection and cleaning, and another for prep—”

“Actually, I’d rather—if you don’t mind, I mean,” Quentin interrupted. Eliot's response was a quirked brow and an obscene smirk that confirmed, right, he _definitely_ did not mind. Quentin swallowed. He'd imagined Eliot so many times in so many different ways, and now he just wanted to savor it. Make it count. Make it good for him.

“Cool, um...So I haven’t actually...I mean, it’s not like you’re the first guy I’ve had sex with but,” he paused. Fuck, even that was debatable. Suddenly Eliot’s bed sheets had gotten a lot more interesting, if his inability to look up from them was anything to go by. “I haven’t exactly done—um, I just—I need you to tell me if I hurt you. I don’t want to mess this up El.”

“Hey,” Eliot purred, setting a hand on Quentin’s hip. His thumb was rubbing soothing circles against Quentin’s abdomen, and it managed to be grounding and euphoric all at once. He moaned. Leave it to Eliot to bring a perfect contradiction to life and serve it without a second thought, indeed. “If you do, I'll tell you. But trust me, I won't need to. You're going to be great."

"Okay but what if I—"

"You won't," he interrupted with a finger to Quentin's lips. Quentin was acutely aware that they were having a serious discussion. He was also acutely aware that he wanted to trace his tongue against the pads of that finger, draw it into his mouth. He shuddered. "I want this Q. Specifically, I want this with you. That's the hardest part there, and you've already won. Alright?"

Quentin nodded slowly. His ears pounded with the rush of blood that was in all likelihood turning his face bright red. Eliot smirked before giving him a quick peck. "Good boy", he murmured against Quentin's lips, and Quentin saw fucking _stars._

They walked through the tuts in unison, Eliot laying an additional protection charm over each of their abdomens, and after a practice run and a quick incantation in ancient Greek, Quentin's palms were brimmed with oil. 

"Lie back", Quentin said, aiming for commanding but probably landing somewhere closer to needy. Once Eliot was settled, sprawled across his bedspread like a king with Quentin to serve him—that was _definitely_ being filed away under _'ideas to explore later'_ —Quentin pushed one of his thighs upwards, exposing him fully. Quentin's breath hitched. He placed a trepidatious stroke across his entrance, mesmerized by the way he fluttered under Quentin's thumb.

"Come on," Eliot whined, "do you want me to beg?"

Well. _Well._ Quentin’s mouth went dry at the thought; Eliot on his knees, pupils blown and desperate for whatever Quentin would give him. “Maybe next time,” he rasped, before sinking a finger into Eliot’s body.

Quentin inhaled sharply as Eliot pushed further onto his hand. His body knew what it needed from Quentin and he was going to take it. Quentin kissed the inside of his knee, and crooked his finger gently. Eliot gasped.

" _Fuck_ , right—right there." He panted. "That's—give me another, baby."

"You sure?"

_"Positive,"_ Eliot exhaled before curling upwards, his _beautiful, broad hand_ against Quentin's neglected dick. His vision went bright, his head spun, and all that existed was the heat of his body around Quentin's hand and the perfect way he ran his thumb over the head of Quentin's cock and the ever narrowing space between them.

What else could he do but comply?

He pushed a second finger in, doing his best to commit the look in Eliot's eyes, the slight gaping of his mouth to memory, while Eliot did his damnedest to distract him with his _perfect_ fucking fingers. Slowly, he pulsed in and out, scissoring carefully and finding room for a third before long. The once controlled, now slightly erratic, movements of his chest vibrated straight through to Quentin's core. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it felt like to be whole. 

"Are you—can I?" He asked breathlessly. Despite not being much better, Eliot still had the audacity to smirk at him. Of course, that smirk only seemed to exist to make Quentin dick jump in Eliot's hand, which just made him grin wider.

"Use your words, gorgeous."

Quentin had never been into pet names. They tended to feel infantilizing in his eyes, condescending, too wrapped up in memories of pediatric psychiatrists saying _"why don't we talk about how you feel sweetie"_. But for Eliot, he could change his mind. For Eliot he could change his mind about anything. He arched forward, the breath punched out of him by a particularly clever pull of Eliot's hand.

" _Fuck,_ Eliot, are—are you ready?" He groaned.

Eliot smiled and tipped his head back. "I am Q, you've been so good for me baby. So _good_ ," he keened. And that—that just about did Quentin in. He withdrew his hand, making note of the subtle wince of loss in Eliot’s face that he’d tried to hide. Quentin arched forward his face making a home in the crook of Eliot’s neck and aligned himself.

“Remember, if I—”

“You’re not going to,” Eliot shushed. He tipped Quentin’s head upward and kissed his forehead. He felt small and secure, enveloped in everything that was Eliot. “You’re not.”

He nodded. Eliot canted his hips forward, a clear invitation if one ever existed. Quentin placed a soft kiss into the column of his neck, inhaled, and sheathed himself within Eliot’s body.

If Quentin had continued sleeping with the douchey frat-guys he had in undergrad, he undoubtedly would have seen _‘tight’_ and _‘hot’_ as the end all be all of good sex. Fortunately, a terrible not-quite-a-breakup and a weekend of discussing feminist TedTalks with Julia had broken him of any such habits. Or at least the worst of them. Therefore, it had to be more than just the delicious heat of Eliot clenching around him that left him wide-eyed and breathless. It could have been the way his eyes flared open, his pupils dilating with want. It could have been the press of his ankles against the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer like he couldn’t get enough. Quentin pulled back, his thrusts experimental as he searched for the right angle that would drive Eliot to the edge. He braced himself against Eliot’s shoulder and _pushed_ , and Eliot cried out and grabbed his hips.

“ _Fuck_ , right—right there, just like that, _God_ Q—”

And again—What else could he do _but_ comply?

As he watched Eliot staring up at him, eyes full of ideas he was afraid to put names to, Quentin couldn’t help but think about how wrong he was. Eliot wasn’t the sun. Suns were too distant, too explosive. The center of everything, giving life, but with the fear that they would burn out and lead to the heat death of the universe never far behind. Whatever Quentin was, he still didn’t know, but if Eliot were anything, it was the moon. He didn’t move the universe, just the tides, but it was more than enough to influence the way of the world. Despite his sublime nature, he was never as far as you feared. But arguably most significantly, he reflected back the light of everything around him. Eliot could show you that there were things within you that were worth admiring, had some spark, even if you couldn't see them. His thighs tightened around Quentin's body, the sounds spilling from his mouth a goddamn symphony.

"Q, I'm—ah!—I'm close—" he panted, and Quentin felt it like a punch to the gut because _he_ had done that. Quentin reached between them and grasped Eliot's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts as best as he could. Eliot's face twisted, his hands desperately clawing for purchase on Quentin's back as he bore down fully on his cock. After another moment of gasping into his side, Eliot cried out, painting the space between them with his come. He slowed as Eliot settled through his orgasm, collapsing back into the mattress. He stopped for breath as Eliot’s eyes cleared, sparkling and hazel and goddamn mesmerizing, staring up at him in a way that Quentin could only describe as _disgustingly fond,_ and Eliot pulled him back into another kiss. His tongue traced along the lines of Quentin’s teeth, their cheeks flush against one another as they fought for air. His body curled over Eliot’s, tensing once, twice, as heat and tension curled in his core. He sobbed into Eliot’s shoulder as he released that tension into him, hoping his body was saying all the things he didn’t have the words for; _You’re the most spectacular human I’ve ever known. it’s terrifying just how much I would do for you. I think I might be falling in love._

He collapsed besides Eliot seconds later, the cadence of their breathing the only sound between them. Quentin lolled his head back to face Eliot, his chest rising and falling slowly, his profile gleaming in the soft light that filtered through his window. As soon as the thought came into existence, it repeated through his head on loop. _I think I might be falling in love, I think I might be falling in love._ Only—now what?

Quentin turned his eyes towards Eliot’s ceiling, thoughts of what was and what could be intermingling with the million anxieties masquerading as his personality. Eliot undoubtedly felt something, but he was afraid to ask, to speculate how much. So, what next? Was he supposed to—Did Eliot want him to stay, should he go back to his own room, would they mention this in the morning, would he actually want it to happen again?

He sat up and tried to ignore the way his head spun from moving too fast—It wasn’t so different from how he’d spent most of the night anyways, and gestured towards the door. "Do you want me to…?"

Eliot breathed in deep, then exhaled slowly. "Don't be ridiculous, of course you're staying. Besides,” He scooted over a few inches, a movement that Quentin would have made look like a fish flopping around on carpet that he somehow made look effortless, and patted the space beside him, “how else am I supposed to wake you up tomorrow morning with brunch?"

"It already is tomorrow morning." He retorted with a roll of his eyes. He settled back into the space besides Eliot, tucked under his chin regardless. Eliot chuckled as he carded his fingers through Quentin’s hair and this time, Quentin didn’t fight the urge to shiver.

"Semantics Q, semantics."

Quentin rolled his eyes again, but settled nonetheless. For the first time all night—morning—whenever, it really didn’t matter, he fully relaxed. "So, is breakfast in bed an essential part of the Eliot Waugh experience?" He laughed into Eliot’s chest.

Eliot hummed thoughtfully, his fingers continuing to dance across Quentin’s scalp. "No, but… You've always been the exception."

Oh.

His eyes flicked up to meet Eliot’s. His stare was loaded with something Quentin couldn’t read—or rather, he could, but it was too soon to name it. Far too soon. Though, Quentin supposed, they didn’t have to name it right now, did they? Tonight, he could just be content in Eliot’s arms, and later they would trek downstairs to complain about the poor cleanup Todd had done over eggs benedict, which Eliot would insist on making hollandaise from scratch for, and it would be perfect. Maybe he’d come back with Eliot to his room again, or maybe Eliot would come to his. For too long, time had felt like Quentin’s enemy. A never ending march towards a future he couldn’t imagine and wasn’t prepared to face. Now it felt more like an opportunity, an invitation. Quentin didn’t know what this was, and maybe he didn’t need to yet. He and Eliot had all the time in the world.

And somehow, that seemed alright.

* * *


End file.
